


to learn something new

by ValentinesValentine (UnfinishedProject)



Series: overcoming [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fights, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Kissing, POV Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:53:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnfinishedProject/pseuds/ValentinesValentine
Summary: X6 should've learned by now that Nora would fret over even the smallest of injury. And that missions never seemed to go as he planned, that she'd always find a way to leave him confused, uncertain about everything he knew before.
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor & X6-88, Female Sole Survivor/X6-88, John Hancock & Female Sole Survivor
Series: overcoming [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018095
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	to learn something new

**Author's Note:**

> It's a prequel to the series as it is so far but will be moved to the beginning of the series when the next part(s) come out.

He didn't even think, diving across the open space to reach her in time — tackling her down to the ground. The rifle fell from her hands with a clatter, his own slamming into the pavement with enough force that the barrel covering could fracture. But she was safe, pushed out of the trajectory of the bullet in the last second — he wasn't as fortunate, however. It wouldn't have happened if he still had his courser uniform on. His duty wasn't to survive the longest but to keep her safe on Father's command which, given her rather infrequent recklessness, might be the death of his one day. 

He was a synth, replaceable and he accepted his fate — but then why did she always waste stimpaks on him? Why couldn't she accept that one day he might need to sacrifice himself for her? She was so stubborn when it came to mid- or post-fight care, insisting that he'd be patched up, too. Even when he refused, she patiently asked him over and over again until he agreed — though he still didn't condone the waste. She said something about friends needing to stick together — but they weren't friends. Coursers were feared and looked at with contempt and suspicion even from other synths; and whatever little concept he had of friendship was the exclusive privilege of humans. 

"You've been shot." She gestured towards his shoulder, just a hair breadth short of brushing against the wound. She probably didn't intend to hurt him, not with her constant fussing over his injuries. This wasn't the first time he was hurt because of her and likely wasn't the last — he could just only hope she'd learn soon enough that diplomacy was rarely the solution in the wasteland. Her penchant for negotiating first, shoting later was still one of his constant annoyances when it came to traveling with her — the other her refusal to wear her hair in a more sensible style. Most other of her antics he got used to; not necessarily seeing the reason behind but no longer questioning her motives. 

"It's just a graze." Even though he'd try to shrug it off, she'd insist to take a look at it — and maybe he would even be inclined if bullets no longer flew above their heads. There was still feeling and strength in his arm, his shoulder couldn't look as bad her anxious expression would lead him to belive. Her concern was... he wasn't quite sure of the feeling — no one showed him so much interest, no one was so thoughtful with him. He didn't know what to do with that sensation of warmth and tingling in the back of his mind, how to overcome the split seconds of being frozen up whenever she tried to get close to him. 

It wasn't until a drop of his blood splattered on her skin that he realised just how close they were, bodies pressed together in some grotesque intimacy. If he could, he would've avoided the unnecessary contact — she was already too cavalier with her touches, there was no need to encourage her further. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, carrying the scent of mint faintly and his gaze slipped to her lips, still upturned in a pout at his condition — but he tore it away from her face, surveying their surroundings instead. There were still two mercenaries hiding in the shadows; a bigger concern than just how inappropriate their positions were. 

"Stay down." If it was anyone else, he wouldn't get away with giving orders, that wasn't his place as the synth bodyguard — but her ineptitude for fighting often had him take the lead. She never complained, not to him, not to anyone in the Institute; and the majority of the time, she followed his instructions without questions. It was one of the first of many things about her that caught him off guard. Then came all the little things; the way she constantly sought contact, using a stimpak on him even if his injury wasn't as severe, or how she treated him no different than she treated her own son. Sometimes he thought it was just a clever punishment, whether she or Father thought of it, for something he did to wrong them — but caught in a firefight wasn't the time to wonder about it. 

He searched the busted out windows of an old building, resting the barrel of his rifle on the concrete roadblock that now she leaned back against. Looking down his scope, the world outside the crosshairs seemed to stop existing — only vaguely aware of her presence, feeling her gaze flit up to his shoulder every now and then. He was about to lower his rifle, admonish her needless concerns when he spotted a figure sneaking from pillar to pillar. The blue of his laser lit up the overcast Boston afternoon, hitting his target before even a stray bullet could fly. He was about to turn around, survey the rest of their surroundings when he heard the surge of another laser — and a dull thud some distance behind him. 

They couldn't be sure if that was the last of them but she was already crawling over to the nearest corpse, muttering something about stimpaks and chems. They were running low on necessities but she wouldn't hear about going back to the Institute. He had no objections against the practice; ammunition was scarce out here and dead men had no use for their belongings. And as long she didn't try to eat of them, he'd just stand by watching her back while she patted down the bodies in search of valuables. He hasn't spent much time outside before meeting her, and there was little that could shock a courser — but he'd never get used to the sight of humans eating each other. 

"Damn it." She wasn't one to swear often. Her eyes flitted to his shoulder from where she crouched by the last corpse she checked and it was enough to tell him she found nothing of use. He offered his hand to help her up and there seemed to be a smile playing on her lips despite her frustration before — and he was left wondering what was in his touch that could so often appease her. 

"Ma'am, we should be going." He didn't like staying in the open long, to become an easy target — and there was no point in searching corpses any longer. They could probably purchase anything they need once at their destination and, despite what she might believe, his shoulder would be fine. They were close already when they ran into the group of mercenaries and even though he made quick work of them, they lost too much time if she was still standing by her original plan. 

She had no objections, looking this way and that before heading down a street. There was a sort of confidence in the way she navigated the old town of Boston that left him intrigued — what memories he had weren't spanning decades of a now lost world. Should he ask, she'd probably be happy to share more about her past — but it was strictly a work relationship they shared even if her actions often hinted at more. 

The way she treated him was different from how anyone else did. There was some fear in her, just an unconscious defense; and its lack would leave him more concerned. But she was speaking with him as if they were equals, allowing herself touches as if they knew each other longer than a few weeks — caring about whether he lived or died. Even now, she kept turning back to see if he was coming, and he caught the concerned gazes that flitted to his shoulder. He wanted to shrug it off, he sustained worse injuries before and survived — but he knew that she wouldn't stop worrying until getting that stimpak into him. 

"Whatever happens, please let me do the talking." Lost in thoughts, he hardly noticed how far along they came; neons now glowing in the falling evening light. He had no trouble letting her talk; but he didn't understand why she felt the need to lower the zipper of her jumpsuit. He long learned that everything she did had a reason, even if it was beyond his understanding, and he refrained from calling out her immodesty. Her pale skin was painted by the pinks and blues — and there was a foreign feeling, a sort of uneasiness taking hold of him. 

She never shied away from showing off her body or playing coy when dealing with merchants, but he never cared much before. Now it felt like she was taunting him, testing if he could stay calm, obedient by her side — and he wasn't sure what reason she'd have. It probably wasn't true, and she might've been right about how serious his injury or its consequences are; but it felt more real than some elaborate hallucination. 

"Sunshine, good to see ya again." They hardly stepped through the gate when she changed path from the merchant stall towards the mayor, returning his greeting with the same enthusiasm. He watched from a few steps away as his arms wrapped around her, palms slipping lower after a few, friendly pats on her back. Ghouls were appalling already, unclean, the filth of the Commonwealth — and if synths had any, the scene would lose him his appetite. His fists curled and uncurled and he was itching to hold his rifle in his hands; but watched in dead silence as they both chuckled at something she said. 

He could've listened in on the conversation if he wanted to, he wasn't standing that far away from them — but he respected her privacy and boundaries. And he respected her independence, too; enough not to drag the ghoul off of her even if he got too close for his own comfort. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat, getting closer to throwing up with each moment he had to witness the ghoul's disregard of propriety. She deserved better than some lecherous, flayed chem addict — even better than him, too; someone who could give her more than just protection. But it wasn't his place to decide who she could or couldn't settle with. 

He's never been concerned much about the relationships she had as long she kept in mind the Institute's interests; but the ghoul was bringing out the worst in him. They had nothing to gain from an alliance with Goodneighbor, their only interest in the place was to put a stop to the Railroad's operations. And he wasn't sure what that other emotion was beside his anger that somehow felt misplaced, unnatural, too. He hated ghouls and it should've been as simple as that — but that urge to hurt, to destroy, to rage seemed to come from a more personal place. It wasn't just frustration that she took way longer than needed to get something done, that she used the diplomacy she was so fond of — he's been getting used to that, it wouldn't be such an intense feeling. And her glances, that he supposed were to reassure him that it wouldn't take much longer, only fuelled that anxiety, that twisted feeling of sacrifice that she'd rather be close to him again, that she'd rather touch him instead of that ghoul — if only so that he wouldn't do anything to hurt her. 

Relief washed over him when she excused herself from the conversation and, for a moment, he didn't even mind that she grabbed hold of his hand, dragging him across the square to the merchant stall. The warmth of her palm against his skin felt reassuring but, despite the unexpected comfort of it, it was highly impractical. She made a sound that seemed disappointed to him when he pulled back but, to his surprise, she didn't try to hold it again — though maybe it was just so she could grab enough bottle caps for the chems. 

"We got a room in the hotel, free of charge." The thought that it wasn't free, but she's made some promise of a different nature, distracted him enough that he didn't realize there'd be only one bed until they reached the suite. He'd be keeping watch while she slept and she'd do the same — but the chance of her getting ideas about sharing the bed were higher than he preferred. There were worse things he had to endure, like getting shot, as part of his task to protect her but the thought of being so close to her again made him uneasy. 

For him it wasn't as natural to wrap an arm around her like it was for the mayor and, even with her repeated attempts to touch him, he couldn't imagine how she'd want to be intimate with him out of all people she could get. There were Institute scientists in every Division whispering about her in awe, men and women ready to give her what she's sought from him. 

"Could you take that armor off?" If there wasn't still a dull ache in his shoulder reminding him of the untreated wound, he'd assume a different motive behind the request. With the stimpak in her hand, it was unlikely she had another reason — and he complied without questions. She nodded for him to take off his undershirt and, though reluctant, he pulled it over his head. He felt exposed under her gaze, the feeling just furthered by the breeze-like caress of fingers along his bicep. He could've been used to the feeling of her soft skin on his own but it still made him tense when the pad of her fingers dug into his muscles to keep his arm still. He tried to relax his arm, ignore the warmth that was her soft breaths and the palm pressing against his skin. "I haven't even thanked you for saving my life." 

Her eyes flitted to his face, offering him a small smile before focusing on the stimpak again; her thumb brushing over the puncture mark the needle made. He was always amazed by the nonchalance she could talk with — yet somehow keep the sincerity of her words. She made it seem so easy when he was often lost for the right words, unsure when he would say something he shouldn't have; something hurtful or inconsiderate. 

"I was just-" A finger pressed against his lips, cutting him off. Her gaze held his for a brief second that kept him from trying to finish his sentence. The silence, both his own and hers, filled him with an anticipation that felt like dread — only he didn't know what he was so terrified of. She was just standing there; though uncomfortably close, she hasn't done a thing but study his expression as if looking for an answer to a question only she knew. Her palms came to rest against his collarbone, using them to rise and catch his lips in a kiss before he could remove her hands. 

He's seen how recall codes worked and it felt like the touch of her lips had the command to shut him down. His only thought was the overwhelming warmth and softness of the kiss, a sharp contrast to the coldness and cruelty of his days. Even if it couldn't be more than just a few seconds, to him it felt like an eternity before she pulled back — and it took him another second or two to let out the breath stuck in his throat. 

"Am I really just a job?" She was still too close to him even if her lips no longer brushed against his own. Her hands still rested on his bare skin and it felt like he'd burn up from the touch, hotter and more intense than the burn of the earlier shot. And the way she looked at him, the curve of eyebrows raised in question, made him feel anxious for no reason — as if he was facing a test he could fail. 

Even if it would be the way of a coward, he wished to relay back to the Institute; just to clear his mind, just to find the answer she wanted to hear. Whatever it was, it seemed more intimate than just the friendship she's been blabbering about since the beginning; and he's never felt so conflicted over his thoughts and emotions. Was it still a job if, somewhere deep, he wanted to be the one to travel with her? Was it still a nuisance to keep her out of trouble when he was amazed by the experiences he gained by her side? Or did she just find a way to make him malfunction, to make him want things that weren't allowed before, that he shouldn't want? 

"I don't know, ma'am. You're not like the scientists, I don't know how to act around you." 

"That's all right." He wasn't sure why he expected her to be disappointed by that answer — why he still expected her to be like anyone else. "We can figure that out together."

**Author's Note:**

> The end is a little corny but I couldn't help myself.


End file.
